When I was a little kid–way back in the day when kids still went trick-or-treating and my dad still pretended he loved my mom and I had a semi-functional family–we used to have a tradition. Kind of. I always thought of it as a tradition, at least, in my little seven-year-old way.
My dad worked a lot when I was younger. He always had to travel out of town for business (or maybe “business”; who could be sure), so he’d be gone a lot of the week. But, he was usually home on weekends and we’d play and he’d be Fun Dad™ and all that sort of stuff.
One of the things we’d do was on Sundays. He’d get me and my brother up and we’d all go down to Ye Olde Doughnut Shoppe (remember when there were stores other than Dunkin’ Donuts devoted just to selling donuts?) and we’d pick up donuts for breakfast. Usually we’d drive, but sometimes, if the weather permitted, we’d walk. It was about a mile, but I was young and still in good shape, so I didn’t mind.
I don’t know why I suddenly just thought of that. I was just staring out my window, thinking I’d like to walk over to the grocery store and pick up a donut for breakfast, when it came to me. Okay, so, I guess I know why (or maybe how) it came to me. But, it’s weird because I’ve gone plenty of mornings in this exact situation and I never think about it.
I hardly think about anything from my past, anymore.
This has been a weird summer for me, so far.
Edit to add: I went and got some donuts. Because Sundays are for donuts.